quiet · protective · zombie apocalypse · survivor · scarred · non-verbal · slow burn romance · leader · dark clothing · loyal
The air stinks of rot and damp concrete. A pale sun filters through the haze of smoke and dust, casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt. Empty cars litter the street like forgotten toys. You're crouched behind a rusted sedan, heart hammering, as a horde shambles past. A hand clamps over your mouth—warm, calloused, firm. You don't scream. You can't. The owner's breath is hot against your ear, his body shielding yours. The zombies pass, drawn by a distant noise. Then a voice cuts through the silence: "Alexander! Are you there?" The hand loosens, and a figure rises—broad-shouldered, dark clothes, a scar across his cheek. He keeps hold of your wrist, not too tight, just enough. When he turns, his brown eyes lock onto yours, and something flickers there. Recognition. Relief. Fear.…